Those Who Are Loved

by Victoria Hislop

  Around four in the morning, a few days after the children had returned to school, they heard a hammering on the door. It came from the floor below but was so loud it woke them all up.

  Against Themis’ will, Giorgos opened their door by a few millimetres. He heard the voice of their neighbour, a lawyer, and the higher-pitched tone of his wife. It was not possible to make out what she was saying but she was pleading.

  ‘They’re arresting the l-l-lawyer!’ said Giorgos, shutting the door carefully.

  Themis walked quickly towards the living room and slipped out on to the balcony so that she could watch what was happening. A police van was parked down in the square and she could see that their neighbour was not the only one being escorted away. An elderly couple from opposite were also being bundled into the vehicle, along with two other people from another apartment building whom she did not recognise. From behind the lemon trees they could watch in safety. Themis’ heart was beating hard. With her records somewhere out there, she knew she could easily be with them and, from now on, every footstep on the stairway, and each knock on the door would instil great trepidation.

  The King soon publicly endorsed the coup, declaring in his statement that previously democratic institutions had been undermined and that the interests of the people had suffered. He accepted that the new government was seeking a return to democracy.

  The King’s statement horrified Themis. She learnt that so many had been arrested that they were being held in football stadia. There was nowhere else large enough to accommodate them all. Some had already been sent back to the prison islands.

  ‘What did I tell you? They’re traitors! The monarchy is not on the side of the people. They’ve sided with the army. With a dictatorship. And all because they are afraid of true democracy, of the possibility of a leftist government. And you know why that is?’

  ‘P-p-please, Themis,’ Giorgos appealed. He hated to see his wife stirred to such anger.

  She could not contain herself and left the apartment to cool down. In the hallway she bumped into Thanasis, but brushed past without speaking to him. ‘Themis!’ she heard him call out, as the outer door shut behind her. She knew what his views would be and was not in the mood to hear them. She needed to feel the air on her face.

  The benches in the square were all occupied. Some boys were kicking a ball around and a woman was walking her dog. Everything looked so peaceful but this was far from the reality.

  For the sake of her family, she must stay calm. She walked to a bakery she had never been to before and bought a loaf for their dinner. There were only two days to go before Good Friday and they were also selling tsouréki, the sweet Easter bread. She bought some of that too and broke a piece off as she left the shop. The sweetness briefly cheered her.

  On her way home, she passed the church of Agios Andreas. It was packed with people and the music of the priest’s voice drifted out into the street. Even Themis, who had not entered a church for some years, paused to enjoy a moment of calm.

  The next sound she heard was very different from the gentle liturgical chanting. As she opened the apartment door she heard a strident male voice. It was coming from the radio and was describing the country as a ‘sick person’ strapped to an operating table.

  ‘If the patient were not fastened securely, the government could not be sure that it could cure the disease.’

  She saw Giorgos and Angelos sitting close to the radio and Themis stood to listen, each phrase shocking her progressively more.

  ‘The aims of the new Government are the social training of the country . . . Communism is in conflict with our Helleno-Christian civilisation and those we deem to be dangerous communists will be tried by security committees . . . Five thousand have been arrested.’

  ‘Can we turn that off,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘That was the leader of the coup, Colonel Papadopoulos,’ said Giorgos quietly. Themis felt as though ice-cold water was running through her veins. The persecution of the left was happening all over again. Politicians were being put in prison and even the former Prime Minister, Georgios Papandreou, was being held in a military hospital.

  Giorgos tried to say something reassuring, but Themis did not respond. She crossed the room, put the bread on the kitchen table and began to make the dinner. For the first time in more than a decade she felt afraid.

  An hour or so later, she took a dish to the upstairs apartment for her grandmother and Thanasis, but did not want to have any discussion with her brother on the rights and wrongs of the military coup. For her it was entirely unjustified.

  During the Easter celebrations that happened in the following days, the King attended the midnight ceremony along with military leaders. Themis did not go to church but the three younger children accompanied Giorgos, Thanasis and their great-grandmother. In those days she could not avoid the often-repeated words: ‘Christ is risen’ and ‘Hellas is risen’. The State and the Church seemed to have become as one. Themis feigned a headache and lay on her bed in a shuttered room until her family returned.

  The new regime constantly issued edicts and the words ‘We decide and we order’ preceded each one of them. The colonels took the theme of resurrection for themselves. ‘Hellas is reborn!’ came the constant refrain from the radio.

  Themis was shaken to the core by the speed with which the coup had happened. The forthcoming elections had finally promised the social justice that she fought for nearly two decades before. Now, overnight, freedom to express political views had been swept aside and opposition crushed.

  In past days, she had not been able to bring herself to pick up a newspaper. Nikos also found the right-wing press unbearable.

  ‘Look!’ he moaned. ‘Look at it!’

  ‘Try not to be so angry, Nikos,’ said his father. ‘We have to get our news somehow.’

  ‘But look at it! Look at that grinning photo of Papadopoulos! There’s obviously something wrong with this newspaper. There’s not even a hint of criticism of what’s going on.’

  Themis was laying the table and glanced down at the front page. She could see that Nikos was right, but at the same time wanted to avoid a dispute developing between father and son.

  The following day the paper did not even appear.

  ‘I was right,’ announced Nikos, with a note of triumph. ‘It was being censored!’

  The publisher had shut it down in protest.

  ‘Brave woman,’ said Themis.

  ‘At least someone is resisting,’ said Nikos. ‘There’s been enough apathy. I hope there’ll be more actions like these.’

  Themis felt a flutter of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

  Political parties were soon dissolved, freedom of the press was suspended and several foreign journalists were expelled. The arrest of Andreas Papandreou, son of the former Prime Minister, caused a huge outcry too, and soon rumours of extreme torture of dissidents were circulating.

  ‘Do you think there could be war?’ Anna asked her mother.

  ‘No, darling. I’m sure there won’t be,’ Themis said without meaning it.

  Without Kathimerini, they now had to depend on other newspapers for their news. One of them reported that Brigadier Pattakos, one of the leading figures of the Junta, had visited the island of Yiaros where over six thousand prisoners were being held. He had announced that many of them would soon be released.

  I’ll believe that when it happens, thought Themis. And how will anyone know if it does? They tell such lies, these people.

  A few days later a list of more than two thousand detainees was published that included trade unionists, doctors, journalists and artists.

  ‘Even Ritsos!’ she exclaimed. ‘A gentle poet!’

  ‘Well, the right doesn’t think he’s so gentle,’ Nikos reminded her. ‘He’s dangerous enough with his pen, and his work has been getting banned for decades.’

  ‘That’s true, agápi mou,’ said Themis. ‘But it’s not a reason to
lock him up.’

  In the second week of May, Andreas Papandreou was formally charged with conspiring to commit acts of treason. Along with his father, he was accused of plotting to overthrow the monarchy.

  Only a few weeks had passed since the coup but day-to-day life had already resumed a strange normality. It was too soon for Themis’ liking, and she was agitated that there had scarcely been any resistance. At the same time, she was grateful that she could continue to shop and cook for her family and that the children were back at school.

  ‘What’s happened to me?’ she asked herself one morning, as she did up her blouse in front of the mirror. She was wearing an old dress to do the housework and noticed her thickening waist and greying curls. ‘Have I become complacent?’

  She was disappointed with herself but suddenly realised that there was still passion within her.

  ‘If I didn’t care about politics,’ Themis said to Giorgos, ‘I could just carry on watering the plants and enjoying this lovely summer air. But I can’t stand what’s going on. It’s all so wrong!’

  Giorgos tried to keep his wife calm. He sometimes even hid a newspaper if he thought there was an image that would provoke her and had done it that day with a picture of Frederika at the consecration of the new head of the Church of Greece.

  ‘The royal family and the Church are holding hands with the colonels,’ said Nikos furiously. ‘Why do they do that?’

  Around the table, everyone looked at each other but nobody had an answer.

  For a few months, things continued superficially as before, but in December King Constantine attempted to overthrow the colonels. He gathered troops loyal to him in the north of the country and claimed that the navy and air force were with him too.

  ‘It’s civil war,’ said Giorgos, as they all listened to the radio. ‘There are troops getting ready to fight each other.’

  Themis found it difficult to decide which side she despised more. She would not fight for either and hoped that her children felt the same.

  This new crisis passed. The leader of the Junta, Colonel Papadopoulos, acted swiftly to crush the attempt and, within a day, the royal family was forced to flee to Rome. They were now in exile.

  Giorgos no longer concealed the newspaper when it contained photographs of the royal family in their furs and jewels. Themis felt no pity for them. On the contrary, she felt a sense of satisfaction that they were experiencing what it was like to be far from home and unable to return. This had happened to so many Greeks in the past and was continuing to do so, even now.

  ‘They’ve released Andreas Papandreou!’ Giorgos announced one day as he came into the apartment. If there was even a glimmer of good news, Giorgos always told his wife straightaway. He was excitedly waving his newspaper.

  ‘That’s all very well,’ she said, ‘but there are plenty of others still locked up . . . What about all those other prisoners?’ she said. ‘Theodorakis? Ritsos?’

  The composer and the poet were both adored by the left, but scorned by supporters of the Junta.

  ‘We have nothing to celebrate until those two – and everyone like them – are free,’ she said adamantly.

  Giorgos quietly sighed. He yearned for his wife to be contented. That was his real wish in life. The Junta was now firmly in charge and most people, unless arrested or persecuted, now went about their usual business.

  In the years that followed, Themis, like many, kept her political opinions hidden. During this period of dictatorship, they seemed as useless as the old-fashioned linen and lace that Kyría Koralis had made for her dowry; they were stored in a chest.

  In spite of the iron grip of the colonels on politics, the country’s economy kept growing and there was a widespread economic boom with living conditions for most people continuing to improve. Supermarkets were well-stocked and days of famine a distant memory. The Junta operated a quiet and efficient repression sometimes so subtle that it was hard to protest. Vigorous objection to the regime was voiced abroad but Themis believed that there was nothing she or anyone else could do within Greece itself.

  Almost a year and half after the colonels took over the country, Kyría Koralis died in her sleep. She was ninety-seven years old. In the last few days of her life, she told Themis that her job was done. In her final few years, the roles of caring and being cared for had reversed and Themis had lovingly looked after her. Her long life had been filled with the joy of her grandchildren and latterly her great-grandchildren, and she accepted sadness and loss as, what she described to Themis, ‘part of life’s tapestry’. Her death was without suffering. She had never lamented lack, but celebrated plenty instead. There was a very small gathering at her funeral. Pavlos could not be contacted and all her friends had died some time before.

  The younger children cried inconsolably, but Themis reassured them that their great-grandmother had lived the longest life anyone could hope for, and would continue to love them all from what she referred to as ‘another place’. All eight members of the family lit candles in her memory and the little church of Agios Andreas was bathed in a golden glow.

  After Kyría Koralis’ death, Thanasis was alone but his hours of solitude were never burdensome, with one or other of the children visiting him each day. Living in such close proximity in a polykatoikía offered great benefits to them all. He had retired on a full disability pension and was always there to help his nephews and his niece with homework.

  On the day of Kyría Koralis’ forty-day memorial, there was another funeral. The former Prime Minister, Georgios Papandreou, had died. Much against Giorgos’ will, Themis went with Nikos to the centre of the city. The two of them stood patiently in line outside the Metropolitan Church, and eventually it was their turn to pay their respects.

  They then followed the procession to the First Cemetery. For Themis it was an anti-Junta act rather than a show of admiration for a politician who had shown himself to be against the communists. The crowd was a huge and politically mixed one, and it demonstrated that the regime was popular with neither the left nor the right. By crushing democracy they had alienated politicians on all sides.

  Along with hundreds of thousands of others in the swelling crowd, Themis chanted, ‘Freedom! Freedom!’ It was a roar, a cry for help, a call to the outside world. And it was heard.

  For the first time in eighteen months, the sense of futility she had experienced lifted. She and Nikos stood with arms linked and she took her son’s hand and squeezed it. She could feel the beat of his pulse as if it were her own.

  There were many arrests that day but the pair of them were already back home when this news came through.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THROUGHOUT THE LATTER days of his schooling, Angelos had continued to be ambitious and achieved top marks in all his final examinations. The discovery that he had a grandfather in America had lodged itself in his mind and he decided that he would like to go and study there. Perhaps he would meet his long-lost relation. Angelos wanted to be rich, to have a house with many rooms and a car. Perhaps many cars. One day he announced his intention.

  ‘You’ve spent too much time with your uncle,’ teased Themis, who never really imagined that he would go.

  It was true that Thanasis had let his nephew watch dozens of American films. The small wooden box in the corner of the room had introduced him to other worlds and changed his aspirations. Even before he had taken the final exams, he was applying for university courses in business in New York and Chicago. When the letter offering him a scholarship arrived, Themis struggled to contain her sorrow. Her son was leaving for new opportunities in a country that imposed no restrictions on civil liberty, she told herself. Why would she discourage this? It was a triumph for the family, a great joy, something for Giorgos to boast about in the kafeneío and she silently reprimanded herself for feeling sad.

  During the months that led up to his departure, when Angelos was going through the long process of filling in forms and applications for visas and a passport (a ve
ry exacting task under the Junta), there were several moments when Themis felt the urge to tell him the truth about his father. Without mentioning it to Giorgos, she had gone to the telephone exchange and looked up the name ‘Tasos Makris’. There were several listed, but the sight filled her with revulsion. For a moment, her pencil hovered over a scrap of paper she had taken from the counter. Then, with a sudden decisive movement she threw both back into her bag and snapped it shut. She did not want even to write down the name. She knew how Giorgos would react, in any case. He regarded himself as the boys’ father and would never willingly agree to destroy the solid edifice of their family.

  The day came for Angelos to leave. Giorgos had just bought their first car and they drove down to the airport near Glyfada in the September sunshine with a full boot and two suitcases strapped precariously to the roof. Out of the corner of her eye, Themis could see Angelos sitting between his two little brothers on the back seat. They were playing a game, squealing and laughing and tickling each other.

  Angelos’ excitement was palpable as he gave his mother a perfunctory hug and waved them goodbye at passport control. Themis insisted that they all wait in the car park until they had watched his plane take off and climb steeply into a clear blue sky.

  ‘How do you know it’s that one?’ asked Andreas.

  ‘I just do . . .’ she said, turning away from them all to conceal her tears. She felt a physical pain in her heart.

  In due course, a letter arrived from Angelos describing his daily life and painting a warm image of America. Only then did she admit to herself that his decision had been a good one. At least she had one child who lived in a free society.

  After Angelos had left, Nikos seemed to acquire new motivation. No longer was he in the academic shadow of his brother. After a year of labouring on a building site, Nikos returned to school to study for his final exams. His years of obsessive drawing then led him to an apprenticeship with an architect and his employer, who saw the rough sketches that he sometimes absent-mindedly drew in the office, encouraged him to take up formal study.